


👁️

by Morba



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Drug Dealing, Heroin, Light Dom/sub, Light Masochism, M/M, Rough Sex, Sadism, Sherlock is pretty much at rock bottom, dont do drugs yo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 08:59:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19331347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morba/pseuds/Morba
Summary: Sherlock is going through withdrawal, and it's his first week in New York. Since his affable irish dealer is nowhere to be found, he'll have to make do with one of the locals.





	👁️

If his drug dealer were a puzzle, he was a simple, albeit interesting one. Where most people were complicated behemoths of complexes and neuroses interwined with more complexes and neuroses, Grant was just one, masked with an impassive face. 

 

"Married?" Sherlock asks, feigning a capacity of interest. Were it someone more familiar with him sitting across the room on the wide sofa, they might have noticed the finger jumping erratically on the arm of the rickety chair, or the slight twitch of the knee that betrayed his condition. But, Sherlock is extremely practiced at hiding his suffering (however self imposed - directly or otherwise). To Grant, Sherlock seems implacably calm. 

 

"Yeah."

 

"Beautiful, she is." Sherlock jumps up and wanders over to a shelf. 

 

There's a pause before Grant responds. 

 

"Can I ask how you know?" 

 

Sherlock laughs, the edge of it bordering on mania. 

 

"The ring on your finger, Mr. Grant. And the photo on your shelf. Not exactly rocket science."

 

Mr. Grant seems almost shocked for a moment, then laughs as if to himself. "Of course. I'm not sure what I expected from the infamous Sherlock Holmes." 

 

"Oh, I'm very human." 

 

"Clearly," Grant says, drolly. He doesn't have to add, since you're here, in a sordid abandoned drug dealers haunt. It's very much implied. 

 

Sherlock seems to ignore the comment, particularly letting the implicit one float by him and directs it into a mental trash bin. 

 

"Kids, I assume?" 

 

"Hm, yes, two. Katy and Sana. One of the three loves of my life," he says wearing a fond expression on his face. 

 

Sherlock's face forms a grimace as he swoops to pick up the picture. "Really? Can't abide the horrid little creatures myself. I rather..." he glances up at Grant very quickly, "I think I'd rather feel sorry for you. Your wife seems very..." His lips quirk up in theatrical distaste. "Vanilla."

 

Indeed she does. It's a leap he's almost ashamed to make, based on almost no evidence but a picture of her in an airy sundress at the Empire State Building despite being a new yorker. But desperate times calls for desperate measures.

 

"I imagine after the children the sex life must have taken quite the sharper nosedive."

 

Grant narrows his eyes, and decides a moment later to stand to retrieve the baggy from his desk. 

 

"This is what you're here for?" 

 

"But I mean, you love her, so it's fine, " Sherlock said shrugging, and placing the picture back, slightly to the left of where it originally was. 

 

Grant holds out a hand. "That would be ninety dollars." 

 

Sherlock shrugged once again, turning his pockets inside out. 

 

"Don't t have ninety dollars, I'm afraid."

 

Grant rolled his eyes and put the baggy on his desk, sitting down forcefully. "What are you here for then. To piss me off?" 

 

Hopefully, Sherlock didn't say. Instead, he said, "Would it be that hard to believe I just like your company?" 

 

"Yes," he deadpanned. 

 

"But why?" Sherlock whined, stepping closer. "I mean, you can't believe you have that bad of a personality. After all, you managed to bag such a beautiful, normal wife." Grant locked his jaw, eyes hard, and leaned back on the sofa, trying to see where Sherlock was trying to go. The smirk that has been there since the beginning of the meeting froze on his face. 

 

Grant was pissed, yes, but Sherlock could tell that he had pushed this wife angle as far as it was gonna take him. He scratched at his arm absently as he chewed his next words over. 

 

"Too normal? Maybe she isn't a fan of the stuff you'd sometimes ask her about. Is that why you've been sleeping here for the last few days?" He barely notes the folded clothes and carry on bag in the corner - he's lucky it's true. 

 

He scratches a bit more, and edges a bit closer. 

 

"Well, it'll blow over soon, it always does. But I've just been thinking. It's been bothering me for a couple of days-" it hasn't "-what if the problem isn't about really about that?" 

 

Sherlock is less than a foot away now, and is almost standing between his legs. Grant's eye twitches. Not at the comment, more at the audacity of standing so close. 

 

He holds up a taunting pinky finger and mockingly pouts.

 

"Is little Grant the problem? Could little Grant be the root cause of all the marital issues between Mr Grant and Mrs Grant?" 

 

That does it. 

 

Grant sits forward, the smug little quirk of the mouth completely dropped. 

 

"You're trying to make me angry," he says flatly. 

 

Sherlock quickly smothered a satisfied grin before it could take its place. 

 

"No," Sherlock said, "No, not really. I was just, I was kinda curious. Sorry about that. Gossip, you know. It's my vice."

 

There was no gossip, never had been, not from Grant's wife or from anybody. 

 

"I was interested to know, if scary big-boy Grant is really as quick and sma-" 

 

With a suppressed noise of fury, Grant Wilcox shoots to his feet and his hands immediately reach for Sherlock's neck, but Sherlock, anticipating the action, reacts, quicker, and with a firm shove on the chest pushes hin back down onto the sofa and joins him straddling his lap and almost pinning him there with both hands front the back of the sofa on either side of Grant's head.

 

"Are you going to prove me wrong," He says quickly in hushed tones. 

 

Grant Wilcox' answering expression, while not necessarily agreement to his statement, it tells him everything he needs to know. Tells him that, even suffering intense withdrawal, he's still got it. He still knows how to push buttons, and further more, to ends he's never aimed for before. 

 

"Shut, the fuck up, Holmes," he mutters darkly, unbuckling his belt quickly and efficiently. 

 

Funny, is how Sherlock didn't properly think how he was going to keep it going once he got to this point. 

 

Grant had no particular sordid past to be blackmailed with, and nothing he particularly cared about anyway apart from his family, and Sherlock wasn't very much for kidnap. Money was his only dream, his only goal, and unfortunately the one thing he didn't have at this time. So he groped around until he found his pressure point. And it worked. Sherlock, he had a goal in mind. Didn't matter that he'd never done this before, he was going to make it work because he had a goal. 

 

And so even if he was inexperienced, he knew enough to understand that he was expected to take it all off.

 

So he pulled the shirt that read Abbey Road in small font on the right breast over his head, and responded to slight, jerky movements of Grant's hips by establishing a rythm. 

 

Soon, very soon, Grant was exhaling shorter puffs of air and his cock was so fucking hard that Sherlock almost winced to look at him, and actually wondered when he had last actually had sex. Sherlock shifted amd pushed him down to lay on the sofa, an almost crazy grin on his face that the other did not reciprocate as Sherlock quickly pulled off his jeans and his pants, and kneeled again, on knee on either side of Grant's hips. 

 

Grant's eyes followed Sherlocks index and middle fingers to Sherlock's mouth, where he sucked, almost absent mindedly and put them behind him, where he couldn't see. Sherlock tried his best to recall the logistics of what he knew about male penetrative sex, but the facts seemed to elude him as as soon as he put in the first finger. 

 

His eyes rolled upwards with the improbable pain that only grew almost agonising when he put in the second too quickly. After a short minute, When the almost blinding pain began to subside, Sherlock managed to focus on Grant, who seemed to have been watching him almost rapturously. 

 

He decides, to just go for it, right then. He tales him in as quickly as he can bear to go, and the bruising digging of Grant's finger tips into his upper thighs is almost distracting from the searing white hot pain of being entered. He lets out a small moan halfway there, and holds onto the wrists that are holding onto his his thighs, and he keeps going, and even that pain, he gets used to. He takes him in fully, and Grant makes a sound, and he brings himself up, to bear down on his cock again. Then it, the pain, it becomes background. And later it starts feeling good, kind of. Like sex, good. Maybe. 

 

Grant is making those sounds more, after a little while, the intervals between noises, becoming shorter and shorter, and Sherlock is a little bit relieved. After all, he is quite straight, and doesn't think he can come like this. But, this hadn't quite gone the way he had imagined it would, and though he wishes he the thought hadn't even entered his mind, he still can't bear being wrong. 

 

He looks down at Grant at the way his entire body moves with every breath, with every thrust, his eyes focused squarely on Sherlocks, and Sherlock's eyes flick. Not in any particular direction, but he knows where he wants to look (heroin heroin heroin ob-li-vi-on heroin heroin heroin) , and that too, he wishes he had kept in the back of his mind. 

 

He brings his attention back to Grant, because anything else would be rude. Quick. Quick. Quick. Slo-o-o-w. And repeat. Grant's noises become interspersed with groans, and he can see that something is happening. Grant's hand movea up from his thighs, to his waist, up his ribcage, and from there jumps to hover at the space near his neck, trembling.

 

Sherlock struggles to control a smile. He wasn't wrong. 

 

He takes his wrist and moves his hand to his gulping neck. Grant's cold, large fingers latch on. 

 

"I'm not your wife."

 

Grant takes this as some kind of GO, as he lifts Sherlock up from his hips and turns them around so quickly that Sherlock reels from the whiplash. 

 

The sofa feels cold on his back, cold like he had barely registered it on his knees and shins and the tops of his feet before. 

 

Grant puts both hands to his neck, and allows him to see what Sherlock guessed must have existed behind the veil so to speak, the sheer fury at having been sexually humilited, and the pure, unadulterated sadism in his eyes. 

 

He swiftly entered him and it felt different this time. A lot different. So different he gasps aloud. Sherlock's previously half lidded eyes fly open in shock. 

 

Grants hold on his throat slowly tightens, and Sherlock doesn't move except to grip the back of the sofa with his left hand, and the lack of air, it does things-

 

Grant leans down, and hisses hotly into his ear, "Big fucking detective. Is a fucking, slut." 

 

Grant abruptly releases one hand to grip his hair fucking tightly, bringing his head into the Sherlock's neck and breathing deeply as he fucked him, allowing Sherlock enough air to make some sort of indignant noise in response. 

 

"No?" He laughed, as he panted heavily, bringing his head back up to stare down at Sherlock's face. "Look at you. You were barely half hard a minute ago, and now your gasping. You're not even interested in men." 

 

For all of his private airs, Sherlock found himself suddenly aware, that he wasn't really manipulating anyone as much as he was manipulating himself. He wasn't solving any puzzles, or pushing any buttons. He was simply fucking a man in exchange for heroin. What could you call that, except-

 

When he lets out an embarrassing noise, must be the prostrate he reasons. Or rather, attempts to form a legible thought. 

 

"A single derogatory word, and a bit of pain, and look at you. Sherlock Holmes. The fact that you're straight is secondary to the fact that you're about to come because you're a bona fide pervert, " he sneers when Sherlock moans again, real and loud. And when he then attempts to avoid his eyes, Grant slaps his face, violently. Sherlock doesn't look away again, but it should be noted that he's harder at now than he can ever remember.

 

"A genuine fucking, masochistic, junkie, whore." 

 

The words are all punctuated with precisely aimed thrusts, but that final word has a humiliating ring to it because, right now, what he's doing, it rings uncomfortably true. 

 

He comes as hard as he ever has in his life. 

 

A minute and ten seconds later, to Sherlock's count, Grant comes, long and hard, inside. 

 

Later, Grant will stand up, grab the baggy of heroin off the table then throw it at Sherlock's chest as he goes to enter the bathroom. 

 

Sherlock will still be there there when he comes out of the bathroom, laying in the same position he left him in, not asleep, not zoned, just staring very hard at the ceiling as if wishing something away. Or into existence. Whichever. Whatever.  
Cum still drips from between his legs and onto the sofa, and somehow Grant appreciates this. 

 

"You want to stay?" He says monotone, which is something he never ever expected to say. 

 

No response.

 

"I can do it for you." 

 

A very small facial tweak gives him away after a short moment, and Sherlock holds out his arm, fist clenched.

**Author's Note:**

> would u fucking believe that english is my first language?? jesus, this is why i hate reading over my own shit, i make no excuses, i am sorry, i imagine i was extremely horny when i wrote this


End file.
